


It doesn't always get better

by marysutherland



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Homophobic Language, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-04
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 14:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/332675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marysutherland/pseuds/marysutherland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It isn't always easy being gay in the Metropolitan Police. Especially when Sherlock Holmes turns up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for a Sherlock rare-pair [prompt](http://sherlockrare.livejournal.com/814.html?thread=5678#t5678) for dysfunctional Dimmock/Lestrade. Set pre-Series 1, no spoilers for Series 2.  
> Betaed by the lovely [Shouldboverthis](http://shouldboverthis.livejournal.com/).

There were two rules Lestrade had stuck to over the years regarding sex: never sleep with colleagues and always remember to use a condom. And here he was about to break them both with Mark Dimmock. The stupid thing was, he didn't even really fancy the man.

***

He'd first met Dimmock at CID's policy forum for business risk management. Or possibly the business forum for policy risk management. It was something, anyhow, that involved brainstorming sessions. Though in Lestrade's case it was mainly thunderclouds in his mind as he wondered how he'd got sucked into attending this waste of time. Most of the other attendees were the usual mix of the old lags who were desperate to avoid any real work and the young, keen and ignorant who thought that their bright ideas might make some real difference.

DC Dimmock had recently been transferred over from Kent CID and was eager to pass on details of their strategic initiatives. Lestrade wondered again how _he'd_ got to be so old. This kid looked like he still ought to be in primary school; he was even sticking his hand up with suggestions, for God's sake. Then Lestrade got distracted by the fallout from DC Climpson's comment about how the Met needed a strategy for dealing with zombie attacks – why was it always _his_ team that came out with things like that? – and he forgot about DC Wet Behind The Ears for a bit.

Tea break time eventually came, and as Lestrade was hurrying back inside from a quick ciggie he saw three of the others looking at the session timetable in the foyer. And then one of them turned to the shorter man beside him and said: "For God's sake, can you shut up next session, Dimmock, I want to leave on time."

Lestrade rather agreed with the sentiment, but he didn't care for the tone of voice. He froze – they hadn't noticed him – and pulled out his phone, staring down at it while surreptitiously observing the three men. He didn't recognise the man who had spoken to Dimmock, but wasn't the other one DS Croyland? He hoped not.

"Don't you see," Dimmock said earnestly, "that this is our chance to influence the strategy?"

"The high-ups aren't going to listen to us," the man replied. "You're just wasting your time, you little creep."

"Bloody arselicker," the third man said, and God, it was Graham Croyland, as large and as nasty as life. One of the rotten apples still lurking in the uglier corners of CID. Maybe a chance to put a stop to that at last. Lestrade's fingers fumbled on his phone, switching the video on and then pointing it in the men's directions.

"Just because I'm going places, there's no need to be jealous," Dimmock said.

"Yeah, well we all know why you transferred to the Met, don't we?" Croyland said. "Got fed up licking arses in Kent, and thought you could find someone in London, didn't you? Someone who'd take _you_ up the arse and get you promoted."

"Bloody poofs practically run the Yard now," the other man said. "No-one's prepared to stand up to them."

"I'm not gay," Dimmock said angrily.

"Don't need to be," said Croyland. "You're pretty enough they won't worry. Just the sort of fresh meat they like."

"I don't know what you're talking about," Dimmock said. He sounded not just angry, but worried now.

Lestrade walked forward. "No, but I do," he said, and held up his phone. "All recorded. So, DS Croyland, and – what's your name?"

"DC Yates," said the man, shifting uncomfortably. "Look, we were just having a laugh, that's all. Bit of a wind-up."

"Yeah, I can see how funny DC Dimmock found it," Lestrade said. Dimmock still had the tense look of a school kid whose lunch money was about to get stolen. Probably better to wait to talk to him till he'd calmed down a bit. "We should go back to the conference room for the next session, I guess. And maybe you two want to think a bit more about managing _this_ risk."

***

As soon as the thing was over – thank God it had finished on time, partly because Dimmock hadn't said a bloody word – Lestrade caught Dimmock's eye and signalled to him to wait behind. The kid still looked pretty wound up about the whole thing, he thought, as he waited for the room to clear. Not surprising, really.

"Like I said, I've got them taped," Lestrade said, when they were alone. "So it's not just your word against theirs, or even mine against theirs. We've got solid evidence."

"I, I don't want to report this," Dimmock said hastily. "It was just locker room stuff. It didn't mean anything."

"It was bullying," Lestrade said. "Look, I know you think it'll just get ignored if you report it, but I promise you, it won't be. I know the people to talk to."

"I don't want it reported!" Dimmock said, running his fingers through his hair. "I'm not gay!"

"Didn't say you were," Lestrade said as calmly as he could. "Doesn't make any difference to the fact that it's anti-gay harassment. But Croyland can't easily wriggle out of it this time."

"Please, sir," Dimmock said, and he sounded _desperate_ now. "Don't report this."

"Oh, God, what have they said? Look, whatever is it, there's no reason to be scared."

"I'm not scared of them." Dimmock's chin came up. "But think how it'll look on my record if I do report this. Everyone will say there's no smoke without fire. They'll _assume_ things about me."

The bloody thing was that he was right, Lestrade thought. It _was_ going to stand out on his record, get the rumours flying.

"We can't do anything about scum like Croyland unless someone speaks out," he said. "Look, I can keep your name out of it, you can stay anonymous."

"Because there are just so many officers who have recently transferred in from Kent, aren't there?" Dimmock said miserably. "Pretty easy to work out who it was, don't you think?"

Lestrade nodded reluctantly. "If you change your mind, tell me," he said, "I'll keep the recording for a couple of months." Dimmock gave him a half-hearted smile and left. Sod it, he hoped the kid knew what he was doing. Wished there was someone around to keep an eye on him.

***

He soon forgot about Dimmock, though, because he had another hapless kid to sort out. Well, technically, Sherlock wasn't a kid any more than Dimmock was, but he acted about ten sometimes. A particularly disruptive ten-year-old, who alternated between solving impossible murders and behaving like someone with ADHD. Unfortunately, Lestrade didn't reckon it was Ritalin Sherlock was dosing himself with. If he wasn't going to burn himself out in a few months, if he was going to stay useful, he needed to be taken in hand.

It took Lestrade two years hinting and cajoling and then straightforward yelling to get Sherlock to clean his act up. Until Sherlock wasn't on anything stronger than nicotine (God knew that was an addiction that was particularly hard to break). Until he started to act, if not normally, at least less abnormally. And until Sherlock stopped looking like a coat rack and took to eating just enough that he looked skinny but healthy. Well, not so much healthy as absolutely sodding gorgeous. Lestrade had found the heroin chic look easy to resist. Now Sherlock was spending money on food and clothes rather than drugs, his arse was rapidly driving Lestrade insane.

He kept his trap shut, of course. Not because Sherlock might feel obliged to sleep with him as thanks for all his help over the years – Sherlock didn't do guilt, or even much in the way of gratitude – but because if Lestrade started paying attention to anyone, however discretely, he got snorts of derision from Sherlock. Sherlock didn't think much of gay sex.

To be fair, Sherlock didn't think much of straight sex, either. He seemed to regard everyone's sexual behaviour in much the same light as if they were amoebas splitting; an interesting phenomenon to observe, but not something you'd want to try yourself. He'd once told Lestrade he was asexual, though Lestrade bet that if Sherlock ever met any other asexual people, he'd be the first to tell them they were doing their asexuality wrong. Whatever the reasons, Lestrade kept his hands firmly off Sherlock. He was pretty sure that if anyone ever did prove Sherlock wrong about his tastes, it wasn't going to be him.

Still, he dragged Sherlock along to a few parties, just to see if now he was clean his libido might revive. He soon realised, however, how bad a move that was. No-one liked a man who could deduce your orientation, your BMI _and_ your neuroses in under two minutes.  It was probably as well as he was asexual, Lestrade thought, it'd be tough if he actually wanted anyone to stay turned on for more than ten minutes in his presence.

***

He was particularly glad he didn't have Sherlock with him at the next party he went, because it was enough of a bloody disaster anyhow. Police Federation St. George's Day Pub Crawl – what the fuck had someone been on when thinking up that one? In practice, it meant far too many sweaty coppers wearing red and white facepaint  crowding into a string of bunting-adorned pubs with really crappy food. After Lestrade had finally fought his way through to the bar of the fourth pub and got a couple of pints, he'd turned and promptly bumped into someone, spilling the other man's drink.

"Sorry, mate," he said. "I can buy you another one." His victim was a small, young, brown-haired bloke who looked vaguely familiar. He also looked really uncomfortable, even allowing for the fact that he now had a beer-stained  shirt.

"No, no, it's fine," the other man said, edging away, as if he didn't want Lestrade anywhere near him. Still, there were more important things to worry about, Lestrade thought, as he concentrated extremely hard on getting the beers he was carrying safely to the corner table.

"Cheers, sir," said Donovan, his new DC. "Glad you didn't spill any of mine. But how come you're contagious as well as me?"

"What?" he said.

"That bloke you bumped into, he looked like he couldn't get away from you fast enough. I get that with people sometimes. They're afraid me being black is going to rub off on them, if I talk to them."

Kath Climpson reached for her pint and smiled. "Has the guv'nor not told you? He's gay. That's why some of the others don't want anything to do with him."

"I don't need to tell anyone about my personal life," Lestrade said with resignation. "DC Climpson feels the need to broadcast details of everyone's secrets when she's under the influence." Climpson wasn't a bad sort otherwise, though, and his own rule was that things said in the pub couldn't be used as evidence. And at least his sexuality didn't seem to bother Sally Donovan. He already had the impression that not a lot did.

"So who was that bloke?" Donovan asked. "The young one you bumped into. Is he a copper as well? I think I've seen him round the Yard."

Lestrade's brain had finally managed to pull out the right memory. "His name's Dimmock and he's a DC. I think he's in Serious and Organised Crime Command."

"He got made a sergeant last year," Kath said, "and he's angling for a transfer to Homicide now. Little pillock."

"What have you got against him?" Lestrade asked.

"He was going out with Grace Anoya from Records for a bit, but he lost interest just when she'd finally made up her mind to sleep with him. Bloody men. No offence, sir."

"None taken," Lestrade said, automatically. God, he didn't like to think how he was going to manage a team with Climpson and Donovan. Still, if he could cope with Sherlock, anyone else seemed straightforward. But probably best to try and ensure he didn't get Dimmock assigned to him, if he did get offered a place on one of the murder investigation teams.

***

Dimmock moved across to Homicide Command in the autumn, to work on DCI Tennison's team. Lestrade just smiled when they were formally introduced and acted as if he didn't remember him, and Dimmock visibly relaxed a bit, and chatted to him politely for a few minutes. Not that they had much to do with each other, even after that, but at least Dimmock was looking happier. Got into the swing of things, making his mark, apparently. Though Lestrade was glad he didn't have him as _his_ protégé, because there was a fine line between a sergeant who was helpful and enthusiastic and one who was secretly measuring up your office for their own.

***

At least Sherlock didn't have any designs on his job, Lestrade thought, because if he really wanted something, nothing in his path could stop him. What Sherlock wanted that morning, however, was far more basic. He wanted to make Lestrade's life hell. Sherlock was just about to start haranguing him– Lestrade could tell that – for not calling in him soon enough, or too soon, or when there was an R in the month or some other unreasonable reason, when DC Climpson knocked on his office door.

"Come in," he yelled, knowing he was just postponing the inevitable, but still wanting to.  

"Sorry to interrupt, sir," Kath announced, "But they've just released the results of the inspectors' OSPRE exams." Trust her to be the one to want to break the news, Lestrade thought.

"And?" he asked. Murders were one thing, but the fallout when people missed out on promotion opportunities was far more horrendous.

"Three fails."

"Frost and Alleyn, obviously," Lestrade said. He wondered sometimes why they bothered applying. "Who else?"

"Dimmock."

"That's a surprise," Lestrade said.

"Overconfidence, obviously," Sherlock announced. "DS Dimmock has an extremely good memory, but he's cocky as well. Probably didn't think he needed to revise and then got caught out on a few too many crucial distinctions between believing and suspecting an offence had been committed. They reckoned the test paper was harder this year, though I couldn't see it myself."

Lestrade sighed. Pointless to enquire why or how Sherlock knew the complete details of a confidential police exam. He signalled to Climpson to go.

"Didn't know you'd met Dimmock," he said, once she was out of earshot.

"I haven't. But I saw him at the quiz night you dragged me along to last December. He got the question about the noble gases almost, but not quite right because he wouldn't listen to a team-mate."

He'd dragged Sherlock along to the quiz, hadn't he? That was one bit Lestrade was now trying to delete from his memories. The whole stage at which he'd thought that socializing with Sherlock might make him more _sociable_. That there was a normal human being in Sherlock, if Lestrade could just find the key.

"Right," said Lestrade. "That must have been in one of the rounds before we got disqualified for you lip-reading."

"I don't remember sporting trivia, but our opponents could, why not take advantage of that?" Sherlock replied, and the quirk of his mouth was a thing of beauty. "You, Dimmock, the whole lot of you, clutter your minds up and then you can't see the blindingly obvious. For example, in this case, why have you not asked about the dog?"

"What dog?" Lestrade said, and as Sherlock rolled his eyes, he knew it was going to be a bad evening.  



	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not been a good day at New Scotland Yard: it's certainly not going to be a good evening.

Two hours later, Sherlock whirled out of their meeting muttering about the largest size of gun a spaniel could retrieve, and Lestrade was left with a partly torn-apart office and a headache. No point in doing anything more till he found out if Sherlock's preposterous theory about how the gun had got into the river held up, so he might as well call it a night, Lestrade thought, looking at his watch. He might even get home before midnight.

And then do what? Sit in his flat on his own and watch crap telly and...oh sod it, there was a reason he never went home on time. Because it was too bloody depressing there. And he should at least tidy up the office a bit, make it look like he understood the _concept_ of a clear desk policy.

Sherlock had left his gloves behind, he suddenly realised when he started to remove one tottering pile of files. Oh, yeah, he'd taken them off when he'd wanted to demonstrate clawing at Lestrade's cheek and the marks it might make – though at least he hadn't left actual marks on Lestrade this time. Even so, it was tempting to hang onto the gloves, make up for three years worth of pilfered warrant cards.

He shouldn't, of course; they were fancy black gloves, soft, supple leather. The way all Sherlock's clothes were expensive and fit perfectly and made him look...sexy. What would they feel like? He found he was pulling them on – he could only just get into them, Sherlock's hands were longer and slimmer than his. Just like the rest of Sherlock's body. Or all the bits he'd seen so far.

Oh God, he had to stop thinking like that. Most of the time he could control himself. He had to behave round Sherlock, though undoubtedly Sherlock knew how much Lestrade wanted him. He couldn't help the way he tensed up on the rare occasions when Sherlock touched him – like today, when his hand had gone round Lestrade's face to demonstrate the attacker's grip and Lestrade had lost all coherent ideas about investigating anything other than Sherlock's trousers...

That was the problem, wasn't it? Sherlock's touch on him, just for a minute, and hours of not responding to that, forcing down the want, and, _fuck_ , he couldn't switch it off now. His gloved hand reached up to stroke his own face, and he didn't care. Yes, he was an idiot, but why the fuck couldn't he be a contented idiot, at least for a moment?

He was standing in his office at Scotland Yard, wearing Sherlock's gloves and getting hard. And suddenly he did not bloody care – if the only way was down, why not go the whole way? He pulled the blinds in his office, still not sure that he was going to do this. That he was about to sit in his own office and wank himself off wearing Sherlock's gloves. Put it like that and it sounded insane. It was insane. It was also inevitable.

Still, he had to be careful. Just the nightshift around now, and DI Parker's lot were normally huddled round the coffee machine gawking at YouTube on their mobiles, but he'd better check that no-one was around who might decide to come and discuss things at a crucial moment. He wandered out to the water cooler, got himself a drink. All quiet, this end of the building...and then he realised it wasn't. Sitting there in the corner at a desk was a small figure, who looked up and then headed towards him. _Shit_ , it was DS Dimmock. Lestrade should have stuck inside his office, shouldn't he?

"Can I have a word, DI Lestrade?" Dimmock asked.

"Yeah," he replied wearily. "What is it?"

"It's a personal matter." Dimmock's voice was a little too high, stressed. Oh, of course, he'd bollocksed up his inspector's exams, hadn't he? Probably needed cheering up, poor sod.

"Are you off duty now? We could go down the pub."

"No...I...is there somewhere private we could talk?"

"Come in my office," Lestrade said. "Parker's lot won't disturb us there." He gulped his water down as they headed for his office. God, he could have done without this tonight. He parked himself on his desk and stared at Dimmock. Not looking all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed tonight, was he? More like a kid whose hamster had just died, just sitting there, not saying anything.

"You'll have another chance with the exam next year," Lestrade said at last. "Lots of people don't get it first time round."

Dimmock nodded. "I knew I'd messed it up at the time," he said, almost calmly. "Should have revised more. Only the thing is, knowing I'm not going to be an inspector, at least not soon, got me thinking about things. About my life, what I'm doing with it."

Sod it, Lestrade thought. He's failed an exam, probably for the first time ever, and he's having a meltdown. And I am tired and horny and I do not want this crap dumped on me.

"Oh?" he said, folding his arms. Trying to convey _piss off and talk to someone else, sonny_ , but with a bit more subtlety.

Dimmock nodded again and just kept on sitting there, looking at Lestrade. Lestrade stared back, wondering how long this was going to go on for. Dimmock shouldn't be taking this so hard, he thought. He was bright, and a good-looking lad, and if he could just loosen up a bit he might make a decent copper yet. Probably better than him, at any rate.

"Those aren't your gloves, are they, sir?" Dimmock said abruptly. "They belong to Mr Holmes."

Observant, as well.

"The gloves are his, yeah," he replied. "Borrowed 'em from him." Maybe he should get Dimmock working with Sherlock at some point.

"You work with him a lot, don't you?" Maybe not put him with Sherlock, on second thoughts; you needed a pretty thick skin to survive that.

"Yeah," Lestrade said. He just wished Dimmock could work out whatever it was he wanted to say and say it.

"You're very close to Mr Holmes, aren't you?" Lestrade nodded, and Dimmock looked up at him and said rapidly: "Some people reckon you're sleeping with him, that's why he helps you."

"Some people are sodding idiots," Lestrade growled.

"But you are gay, aren't you?" Dimmock went on nervously. "You've slept with men, loads of men. What's it like, having sex with another man? Is it good?"

Fucking, bloody hell, he was _not_ having some little tosser coming along and asking stupid bigoted questions.

"It is none of your sodding business, as long as it doesn't affect my work," he replied, "which it doesn't. Now get out before I throw you out."

Dimmock didn't move, just sat there looking at Lestrade in a bemused way. _Christ_ , was the boy on some kind of drugs? Why the hell was he behaving like this? He went over and put his hand on his shoulder.

"I told you to leave," he said firmly. Dimmock's confused grey eyes looked up, and he seemed about to say something. Lestrade waited, but Dimmock just shook his head, speechless. But Lestrade's hand was still on his shoulder, and he wasn't pulling away the way you'd expect a homophobe to do when a gay man touched him. The way a lot of straight men did. Was it possible...was _that_ why he'd asked Lestrade that question?

"You told me you weren't gay," Lestrade said.

"I'm not," Dimmock said, and you didn't need to be a detective to know he was lying. "I've never...I don't..." There was pinched look to his boyish face now as he looked up at Lestrade. What the fuck did he do, Lestrade thought. Or at least the sane part of his mind thought. Because the other part, he suddenly realised, had its own ideas. His gloved hand had started flexing on Dimmock's shoulder, rubbing the neat bones under there. And then his finger traced down Dimmock's shirt-front, teasing the fabric, and Dimmock _gulped_.

What Dimmock needed, Lestrade tried to tell the hormones that was starting to slosh round his own body yet again, was a gay helpline and some sympathetic counselling. Except from the helpless way Dimmock was looking up at him, as if his own body and brain were disconnecting, what he _wanted_ was someone to decide things for him. To tell him what to do.

"In one minute's time," Lestrade forced out, pulling his hand away and shoving it in his pocket, "I am locking the door to my office and taking my clothes off.  Up to you what side of the door you're on." He had no idea if that counted as harassment, but Dimmock nodded. And then started, with shaky hands, to undo the buttons on his own shirt.

 _Oh fuck_ , thought Lestrade, _this is going to happen_. He went over to the door and locked it. "You need to be quiet."

Dimmock nodded again. He was topless now, starting to take off his shoes. Small, skinny body, not much hair, he looked about twelve, for God's sake. Fancying Sherlock was bad enough, but at least he was a grown man. Lestrade could feel his own arousal seeping away. But if he backed out now, Dimmock probably would have a nervous breakdown, he looked near enough to one already. Lestrade stripped off hastily, but kept the gloves on. Because there was something about the way Dimmock kept looking at them...A sardonic voice said in his head: _Don't want any fingerprints, do we?_

 The problem was, not only did it feel bloody stupid standing in his office in nothing but someone's else gloves, it was only too apparent now that it wasn't the bloke who was _supposed_ to be gay who had the hard-on. Still, if he could get a bit of friction going, his cock might decide to wake up again properly. He went up to Dimmock and grabbed his arse with one hand, pulling him in. Stuck his other hand down between them, reaching for both their cocks, but as he found them, Dimmock let out a gasp. Not a good gasp, more the sort of _help, this nasty man is doing something to me, Mummy_ type.

Lestrade pulled away. "OK, sunshine, what do you want?" he asked, and knew even as he said it that it was a pointless question. He had a clueless, inarticulate, not quite-gay man on his hands. Well not actually on his hands, because a bloke touching his penis was obviously too gay for Dimmock. Whereas his own body had now definitely decided that beggars couldn't be choosers and what it wanted was some fucking right now.

Time for a bloody plan before they both died of embarrassment. Then he had it. Hand cream in his desk drawer, that'd do, better than spit. He pulled out the bottle, pumped some onto his gloves, then handed the bottle to Dimmock.

"Put some on your cock," he said, "then you do me. It's anal sex, not gay. You've probably done it with a girlfriend already. Arseholes are all the same."

 _Arseholes are all the same_ , he thought. Yes, and he was one as well, wasn't he? But stopping now would be more humiliating for them both. And Dimmock was smearing on the cream; he was still hard. He bloody wanted this, even if he couldn't say so. And then, when Lestrade was already reaching round, sticking a gloved finger up his own arse, easing the muscles open, Dimmock opened his mouth. _Shit_ , he was going to say no.

"Condom?" Dimmock croaked, and Lestrade gaped, because how the fuck had he forgotten that? None in the office, obviously, and none in his wallet any more, because he'd got fed up with Sherlock nicking them and then laughing at him. Some down in the Gents, perhaps, if the machine wasn't broken. It'd mean getting dressed, and the hand cream was probably oil-based anyhow, no good with latex, and he didn't have any other lube. It was so bloody stupid what they were doing already, and it wasn't _much_ more risky...

"You clean?" he demanded, and when Dimmock nodded, he said: "Me too. Just do it. Push in gently and stop if I tell you to." He bent over and braced himself against the edge of the desk. Wasn't sure if he'd got the angle right, what with Dimmock being such a short-arse, not like Sherlock. _Don't think of Sherlock_. Actually, might as well think of Sherlock, because he wasn't going to get much out of this thinking about Dimmock. Though Dimmock was pushing his erection carefully into him now and a cock was just a cock from behind, could be anyone's. Probably not a hope of Dimmock finding Lestrade's prostate, but at least he wasn't freaking out.

Dimmock's hands were clamping tightly round Lestrade's hips, as he started to find some rhythm to his thrusts. He seemed to have worked out what he was doing. Quick learner, obviously. Not going to be the worst shag Lestrade had ever had, after all, and Dimmock's gasps were definitely happier now. Just like riding a bicycle, really, once you got the knack. Meant Lestrade could concentrate on himself a bit. Brace himself hard with his left hand, bring down his right glove to pump his own cock. He closed his eyes, pretending it was Sherlock giving him a reach around. Sherlock's voice going surprisingly high-pitched as he neared a climax.

Dimmock came, moaning, collapsing against Lestrade's back as if his legs were giving out. No, it was really Sherlock behind him. A Sherlock miraculously reduced to incoherence by fucking Lestrade, but whose skilful violinist's fingers were still working Lestrade's cock. Lestrade was swearing under his breath in every language he knew, because otherwise he'd say Sherlock's name and Sherlock would be cross, and then he came, and he didn't know what he'd yelled.

He opened his eyes. He had yelled, and he'd come down the side of his own _bloody_ desk, and _fuck_ , he was officially insane. He grabbed at the box of tissues on his desk and pulled out a handful. Started to try and mop up the mess with one hand, as he reached out behind him and offered the box with the other hand. Somebody took it. The somebody who was standing behind him, breathing far too hard and not saying anything.  Lestrade stood there, cleaning himself and told himself that he was not turning round at the moment because his legs were still a bit shaky. Absolutely not because when he turned round he'd have to face Dimmock, work out what the _fuck_ to do next.

He was going to have to do something, he knew. See what state Dimmock was in. Maybe he'd be in luck, and Dimmock was just heavy breathing from excitement. He'd have a grin on his face like Sherlock's when he'd just worked out a new way to murder someone – _stop thinking of Sherlock_ – like Dimmock probably had when he'd cracked a case. A smirk that said _worked that one out now_. Because what he wanted was Dimmock realising that he'd enjoyed that.

What he did not want was to look round and find that Dimmock looked like a little lost puppy that had just found his owner.  He'd had that a few times before when he'd given blokes their first shag. They somehow had to convince themselves that this was true love, because otherwise it was dirty gay stuff and wrong. He wasn't sure he could cope if Dimmock had imprinted onto Lestrade like some bloody duckling. He was too old for that.

But when he forced himself to look round – because he couldn't stay standing naked at his desk all night, could he? – he saw it was worse. Dimmock had got himself dressed already and he was just standing there shaking. With the look of a man who'd realised he liked gay sex and that that was the end of the world. Who was now going to jam himself back in the closet for the next thirty years.

He ought to say something, Lestrade thought.  Tell him there were people to talk to who'd understand. That next time he ought to use a condom. Make some stupid comment about 'It gets better'. But here he was – a middle-aged bloke who'd been about to wank himself off in his own office because he was pining after a man who wouldn't look at him. Hard to say that was really any better. Dimmock was still looking at him with panicked eyes, like Lestrade might now decide to do something even more unspeakable with him.

"I won't tell anyone," Lestrade said, because it was something to say. Dimmock nodded, and then went and stood by the door as Lestrade fumbled on his own clothes. Waiting to be let out, waiting to get away. When Lestrade unlocked the door, Dimmock said, "Thank you, sir," like he'd just been given a cup of coffee and almost ran off.

Lestrade went wearily back inside the office. He finished clearing up the mess – best to stick the tissues in a bag and take them to the toilets, so the cleaners didn't notice. Dispose of the evidence. Then he looked down at his own hands, still wearing Sherlock's gloves: stains on the leather, his own DNA. Couldn't give them back now, not the state they were in. Easy to deduce far too much from them, and you could never remove all the traces, however hard you tried. And besides, he thought, as he balled the gloves into his coat pocket, even if fantasising about blokes you worked with was the worst idea in the history of the universe, he might still end up needing these again.


End file.
